Flowers (12 page)

Jeremy sulked past her, stabbing a cigarette in his mouth. "Maybe you didn’t screw up my whole night. Brandi’s probably at the coffee shop."

Kate wanted to shout at him, beg him for one last kiss, a fleeting thing to hold in her memory. But he had already turned the corner.

Kate looked up at the slim wedge of moon, her Sisyphus stone. As she looked at that distant face, the one the normal people called "The Man in the Moon," she thought she glimpsed herself. The moon’s light was nothing but a reflection, all of its power and magic only an illusion for poets and lovers. A trick of timing and position.

In every mirror, you give half of yourself away
.

But she still had the other half. She was a Maker.

Kate adjusted her clothing and headed for the bright and noisy streets.

###

WAMPUS CAT

Susan should have known better than to head south with a man, especially to the place her grandmother called "the land of legends."

This was the dark heart of the Alleghenies and dusk was pumpkin-colored and the mountains stood like giant petrified beasts against the mist. Trees mingled, black sticks intersecting. The fallen leaves were as sodden as a fraternity carpet. October's rot filled the air.

And Barry was lost. Barry, with a forty-dollar compass and LL Bean hiking boots and a copy of Thoreau's "Walden" in his backpack, was so lost that Saturday morning looked like Tuesday night.

Susan should have said something. Maybe Saturday afternoon, when Barry eased his hook into the Shawneehaw. Barry had read a book on fly fishing, and Ted Williams, the greatest hitter in baseball history, was also a fly fisherman. Barry talked about Ted Williams so much that Susan wished Williams had been a Yankee instead of a Red Sock.

Because Barry was Yankee. Maine Yankee, the worst kind. She was Jersey Shore college by way of Piedmont Carolina, and much of her blood was rock-deep Southern Appalachian, Scots-Irish and paranoid, a little free-spirited and flaky, but that was no excuse to fall for him. He had passed himself off as a real man and reality was subject to change.

Not that all men should automatically be able to kill bears with a hatchet.

But they could at least take a little time and get things right. Like where they were. And who they were with. To Barry, Susan might as well have been AnnaBeth-Mary, the previous temporary girlfriend to follow him on these Appalachian journeys. At least she had her own tent, so she could turn in early every night.

Doubtless, others had preceded AnnaBeth-Mary and Susan. All of them falling in lock-step with Barry, because when the sun hit his hair just right, he glowed like a lion. Tall and tan and crisp, with muscles and a toothy smile.

But after a while, Barry's little flaws started to show. His confusion. His forgetfulness. His obsession with fly fishing. His play-by-play of the year Ted Williams hit .406.

By Sunday evening, Barry had completely thrown Susan over for the creek. Barry put on waist-high rubber trousers and headed for deep water. She watched from the boulders like a dismal cheerleader as currents skirled around his knees.

And Monday was just as dull. Susan read the hardbacked biography of Benjamin Franklin, a book thick enough to impress any man. But Barry stood by the fire with his fishing pole and a dumb grin and he turned in early so he could chase fish for breakfast.

And now it was Tuesday evening, and they were lost.

"It's Monday, isn't it?" Barry said.

"It's Tuesday."

Barry nodded, fumbled through his backpack, and brought out his fancy bottled water. The campfire glinted off the plastic. Barry peered at the bottle. It was as vacant as his eyes.

"Are we in West Virginia or plain Virginia?" Susan hated herself for not knowing. They’d passed through Harper’s Ferry and over the Shenandoah River, then up Loudon Heights where the trail maps showed a meandering thread back and forth across the border. They headed south out of survival instinct, toward warmer weather. Susan hadn't kept track of miles, all she knew was her feet were sore.

She could outwalk Barry any day, and she could pitch her tent faster than he did. Barry had no brain cells that weren't clouded by Ted Williams and trout and AnnaBeth-what’s-her-name.

And now Susan was stuck with him.

In the mountains.

In the fog with dark coming on.

And it was Tuesday evening.

Late October.

In the Southern Appalachian Mountains.

Susan’s grandma, who everybody called "Mamaw," said the mountains were way wilder than what the movies said. The mountains weren’t hillbilly dolls and moonshine stills. The mountains were old as time, and secrets slept under a mile of worn dirt. Mamaw said those who belonged to them always came back, because the trees and rocks and people and animals were all of the same blood, tapped into the same spirit. Mamaw told of the Wampus Cat, the creature that could change from a witch to a cat in order to seek its prey better, and how it had been caught in the middle of its transformation. Now, when the moon was full, it could be seen in human size, howling, dripping saliva from its fangs, its yellow eyes glowing in the fierce furry face.

Susan shook herself awake.

For the second time.

Cold.

Because Barry was curled and snoring in his little pup tent. And she had to use the bathroom—or in this case, the woods. Real bad.

The Appalachian twilight was scary, because she was from Gastonia. Dead factory town, lazy with the letter
a
and not too proud of it. The mountains were a myth that lay somewhere beyond the pollution belt, the land of legends. But in the dark, the legends seemed far too real. And Mamaw said legends didn’t lie. And dogs didn’t like Mamaw.

Susan shook Barry’s tent. "I've got to go."

"Snurk?"

She shook again. "I've got to go out in the woods. And it's getting dark."

Barry stuck his head out of the tent.

"Sorry, AnnaBeth," he said.

"I'm Susan."

"Sorry."

Men were always sorry.

Especially Barry.

"I've got to go behind a tree. And I don't want to go out there alone." Susan could walk the back streets in factory towns, roll miles on a city subway, take a plane to Pensacola. But the West Virginia woods were a different story. Or were these the Virginia woods?

Barry groaned and crawled out of the tent. He stumbled, groggy from sleep, and went to the fire. He busied himself throwing wood on the pile of embers while she sneaked behind the nearest oak.

As she relieved herself, the chirping of the crickets rose in an uneven symphony. Mamaw said the animals knew songs older than the creek music that trickled between high boulders. And they sang louder in late October, when the magic inside the world seeped closer to the outer skin. Susan heard something in the brush and wiped and zipped before she was completely finished.

Barry sat on a big rock by the fire. The firelight cast him in bronze and he looked attractive again. Then he belched and the wind changed and smoke drifted into Susan’s face. She sat on the ground across from him, as far away as she could manage without freezing to death.

 "Are we near Shepherdstown?" she asked. Because Shepherdstown was a real place, a dot on the map, and no doubt had some kind of fast-food franchise. If she ate another handful of honey-sweetened rolled oats, she was going to turn into a diabetic horse.

Barry pulled his compass from his belt. His golden brow furrowed. On Saturday, such a simple gesture would have set her shivering with love. Now she wanted to pull his ears down over his head and cram his compass into his nose.

Barry tapped the compass and rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I think so."

Barry said "think" with the old Barryesque self-confidence. Even in doubt, he was never wrong.

Susan counted the days backwards on her fingers.  "We left on the twenty-seventh, right?"

"Yeah. Parked the car in Maryland. Greenbrier, wasn’t it?" He patted his pocket to make sure he still had the keys. She should have paid attention to little dissonant clues like the Green Party sticker on the bumper of his gas-hog SUV. Clues like AnnaBeth-Mary’s picture taped to the dashboard. But, on October twenty-seventh, Susan couldn't see beyond his blue eyes.

"That makes tonight Halloween," she said.

"Halloween?" His expression switched from confusion to glee.

She looked around at the trees. Had the crickets fallen silent? She shifted closer to the fire. "And we're lost."

"We're not lost."

"Where are we, then?"

Barry waved his hands at the woods surrounding them. "Here. Near Shepherdstown."

Nowhere. With night sliding from the trees like sick shadows. Barry must have mistaken her look of concern for come-hither. He lowered his voice, the way he'd probably heard George Clooney do it in a movie. "And it's just the two of us, honey. Trick or treat."

Yes, just Barry and Susan. Or was it AnnaBeth-Mary, or maybe the half-dozen other girls Barry had mentioned on the drive down south? Mamaw said you were never alone in the mountains, because the woods watched you like a hungry beast. And legends never lied—

Two golden specks flashed against the black face of the forest. Susan shifted closer to the fire. "Did you see that?"

"Huh?"

"Lights. Like animal eyes."

"Might be a deer. Or a raccoon. Coons like to prowl around campsites."

"These eyes were yellow."

"Probably just a reflection of the fire."

Except the fire was mostly orange and red. Not deep yellow like the eyes. And Mamaw said the mountains had eyes, they watched and they waited, and them that belonged always came back.

Barry grinned with those perfect teeth and moved to Susan’s side, dragging the backpack. He rummaged in a zippered pouch and brought out a cigarette. He lit it and passed it to her, but she shook her head.

"I’m scared of cancer."

He took another drag and put his arm around her. "Don't be scared. I'll protect you."

She was wondering who was going to protect her from Barry. That’s when the branch snapped. She hated herself for it, but she snuggled closer to Barry. Mamaw and her stories. Always told as if the strange were true. "That sounded way too big for a raccoon."

Barry tapped the pipe clean on a stump. "Noise carries funny in the mountains, especially at night."

"Do they have bears up here?" Mamaw said bears were almost as bad as the big mountain cats, the "painters," what had big fangs and screamed like women in the hurt of childbirth. But nothing compared to a vengeful and angry Wampus Cat.

Barry gave his hiccup of a laugh. "The Smoky Mountains have more black bears than you can shake a stick at. Huh-huh. Smoky." He stubbed out the cigarette.

"According to the guidebook, this is the Shenandoah National Forest, not the Smokies."

"Whatever. Mountains are mountains."

Her tent looked inviting, but if she crawled inside, she’d be trapped. And the canvas walls looked far too flimsy to hold back a large animal. Or the weight of the mountains. Or the strength of legends.

"Say, I know a good ghost story," Barry said.

"I don't want to hear any ghost stories."

"Hey, come on. It's Halloween."

How could she tell him what a jerk her was without insulting him and losing what little comfort he offered? As much as she hated to admit it, she needed him. At least until they reached civilization, at which point she would happily give back his twangy bluegrass CDs and never speak to him again. He could drive north, she could head south, and the mountains would forget them, go on with the business of being ancient and full of secrets.

The noise came again, louder and to Susan’s left. "Did you hear it that time?"

Barry pointed up through the gap in the trees. "Moon's almost full."

"On Halloween."

"You don't believe in that kind of junk, do you?"

"Spooks and goblins?" she said. "No, not when I'm safe in bed with a deadbolt on the door and the radio going. But out here, it's different. And you never heard Mamaw’s stories."

Stories about the lady with the lamp, who glowed by the river; painters who followed the wood wagon home, screaming all the way; fireflies that stabbed a billion sparks above the creek beds; frost that glittered in the soft ghost breath of morning; legends that grew legs and flesh and teeth and walked the Southern hills. Stuff that got in your blood and owned you.

"These mountains are alive." Barry's idea of poetry. Or his way of scaring her. All the same, with Barry.

"I don't want to hear any more strange noises, thank you." Susan would not allow this idiot to hear her whine. Her discomfort was genuine, deeper than ancient granite and Mamaw’s long line of handed-down stories. "And I don't want to see red eyes in the forest. All I want is a hot bath and a greasy hamburger and some clean sheets."

Barry tried to look wounded, but the expression came off as something an inept president might hide behind during a press conference. He took his arm from her shoulders.